And Walked the Night Alone
by ispitinyourcoke
Summary: Erevis Cale, First of Five, cleric of Mask, torn between a promise to his god and a promise to a friend. This is a fanfiction set in the Forgotten Realms setting of Dungeons & Dragons, using the character created by Paul Kemp for his novels.
1. Chapter 1

Erevis Cale rolled the pipe over in his hands as he sat under the moonlight outside of the house. Had it been a year earlier, Cale would have been praying, but not tonight. Instead, Cale sat rolling the pipe around, thinking bitter thoughts to himself. It was Jak's pipe, an old friend's. No, a dead friend's, Cale corrected himself. It hadn't been that long, but the days pushed further away from the last time Jak had been alive, but Cale just wouldn't, couldn't, let go. It had been all his own fault, Cale decided. He shouldn't have brought Jak into the big mess. 

No. It was Mask's fault, Cale's god. It was that bastard alone that had pulled the strings of the puppets, the sick god himself that had dragged Cale and his friends through the mud, only to let the halfling Jak die because of the plot. It should have been Cale lying there, breathless and dead, but instead, Mask had played an even bigger fool out of Cale. He claimed he wasn't done with his First of Five.

Cale went through the normal motions of the night. In the darkness, he was up to his full potential, cunning and strong. The transformation had left Cale something other than human. Shadows bled from his skin, danced around his body, shielding him from the horrors abound. Though sometime in the past Cale had lost a hand, in the shadows, it would regenerate, and Cale did not age like mere mortal men.

He made his way back to the upstairs bedroom and sneaked in to get a look at Varra. She lay sleeping on her back, one hand extended over to Cale's side of the bed, as if waiting desperately for her hero's return. But Cale knew himself to be no hero. He'd made a promise to Jak, that Cale would one day become a hero, and it was a promise he was still in the midst of. He stalked his way back to the outside. Cale looked to the moon and frowned.

"If you're listening," he said. "If you care at all, Mask, to know what I'm thinking: piss off."

Cale moved quickly through the night. Two days earlier he'd stumbled upon a group of bandits, planning to raid one of the local halfling villages. Cale had been studying them quietly through the shadows, plotting out their every move, and it seemed tonight would be their time for action. Cale hoped he would reach them before they got to the village. He didn't want to, but if it took all he had, Cale would use some of his newer abilities. Midnight was officially over. Cale noted it in the back of his mind, knew it as instinct, and that meant it was time for the shade to go to work.

He stepped into the shadows and wove himself through space, popping out into some bushes just outside of the bandits' camp. Five men sat around a campfire, sharpening knives and telling tales. Two of the men were dressed in black robes, one appeared young and fiery, the other older, more stoic. Cale guessed them to be the spellcasters. The other three wore plates, and though Cale was tall himself, they still had a few inches on him. One man sat between the other four, a bearded older man, with a scar running through his face. Salt and pepper hair fell down his forehead, and a symbol of the god Cyric was imprinted to his shield. The Mad God, Cale recalled. He'd met some of Cyric's followers before: angry, angsty bastards, full of hate and spite, ready to spit and tar and fight until death. Cale had no argument with that; he guessed the bearded man to be the leader as Cale listened in on the conversation.

"Balthere," the younger of the spellcasters was arguing a point to the bearded man. "There are five of us and a whole village of them. How do you expect us to pull this off?"

"We've faced harder enemies, Vyirth," Balthere replied. "Besides, they're only halfings: they count for naught but the ass-end of a man." All the men laughed, as Balthere lit a tindertwig and took a long pull from a pipe. "We especially shouldn't have that much trouble, so long as you and Thaylen do your jobs."

"Yes, Vyirth," one of the fighters chimed in. "Just light the place up in flames, and we'll step in to take care of the real man's work." The fighters laughed, as Thaylen went on frowning.

"Watch yourself, Durn. As I recall, Vyirth and myself had to step in and save your ass last time." Thaylen smiled, if only for a moment, before receding back into his glare.

"Now, now," Balthere waved the group down. "Let's just put it all aside and get our heads together. This won't be the toughest battle we'll face, but it won't be a date with a whore, neither." Balthere took another pull him his pipe and eyed the fighters. "While Vyirth and Thaylen give us flame and light, Durn and Littlestick will move in. Make sure you guys are quick and efficient; we won't have much time before the town gets organized."

"No worries about that, boss." Durn smirked and took the pipe from Balthere, taking a long drag and blowing a few O's out into the sky. He passed it back to the boss, smiling.

"Good. Are we ready then, boys?" Balthere stood and moved back from the campfire. After some hearty nods and sighs, he tipped out the pipe and placed it back into one of his pockets. "No more fire," he bellowed, and unzipped to extinguish the flames. "Time to head out. A few minutes ride north, on the trail!"

Meanwhile, Cale shifted in the shadows, bringing his hand over his blade. Weaveshear glowed slightly at Cale's touch, and he nodded back to the weapon as if they were partners. It had been something of an accident, but it was still a powerful tool. "Better move," he whispered. "The Shadowman is near."


	2. Chapter 2

The bandits emerged from the trail on the south end of the halfling village. A wooden structure stood before them, a small home for a tinkering halfling family. Balthere stood at the head of the crew, smiling, Vyirth to his left, and Thaylen to Balthere's right. The bandit boss gave the motion, and the casters moved out to the sides as the fighters prepared to slash through the village.

Cale watched as the bandit group broke up. He picked his first mark, the younger spellcaster, and pulled Weaveshear from his side. Surprisingly, Cale produced a velvet mask from his pocket, something that he used to call a holy symbol, and donned it. He prepared himself to kill, pulling the shadows close and moving over behind Vyirth.

He emerged from the darkness a few paces behind the caster, undetected by any of the bandits. Cale wondered if any of the criminals had magical items on, but he refused to cast a spell. He refused his god what he could, and that meant praying for spells from the god of thieves. Instead, Cale creeped quietly up behind Vyirth, bringing Weaveshear up at a diagonal. He waited to hear the alarm, the thing that would set Cale free.

Vyirth began reciting the words to a spell, and Cale dug Weaveshear deep into the young caster's back. Vyirth tried to turn around, tried to scream in pain, but before the caster could make any move, Cale retrieved a dagger from his side and drove it, hard, into Vyirth's neck. The spellcaster was dead before having enough thoughts to gather himself.

Cale wasted no time. He pulled the shadows close again and moved close to where he thought Thaylen would be standing, ready to cast his spell.

Thaylen waited until he heard the signal, Balthere's whistle breaking the silence of the night. When it finally came, he began reciting the words to his second best fireball spell. Thaylen didn't let the others know about his best flaming spell; he'd decided long ago to keep it to himself until he absolutely needed it. It would probably be the day Thaylen would get rid of the others, and move on with the loot, but so far, that day had not come.

Just before Thaylen finished the words to his spell, shadows swirled before him and a masked man wielding a sword emerged from them. The man whirled around to face Thaylen, shadows dancing across his skin, yellow eyes peeking from behind the velvet mask. Puzzled, Thaylen had no time to redirect the spell, sending forth a fiery column straight towards the man. As if knowing what was going to happen, the man brought his sword in front of him, and to the spellcaster's surprise, and the fireball was consumed by the blade

Cale let the sword glow bright red for just a moment. Then, he flicked his wrist, and out burst the fireball once again, thrown upon its caster, sending flames everywhere. Thaylen screamed, his body set immediately into flames, and Cale leaped forward and dug Weaveshear's blade into the man's belly. Blood and fire poured all around Cale for the briefest of moments, until the shade pulled the shadows about him once again and retreated into the woods. He wasn't finished yet.

Balthere stood just to the south of the village, at the delta of the trail, and waited for just a few moments. When he thought all the others were in their places, the bandit boss let out a high pitched whistle, expecting to see the village begin erupting into flames. Instead, only one fireball took off, and it disappeared really quickly. A few moments later, a violent explosion of red light came back, and then Balthere heard the familiar screams of his older spellcaster.

"Thaylen's been hit!" he screamed, running to the side of the building. But when he came around the corner, Balthere only found his burning comrade flailing on the ground, no other being in sight. "Halfling guards! In the bushes!" He screamed. "Vyirth! Durn! Littlestick! Move out!" When no one responded, Balthere turned to the caster, who was writhing on the ground before him, nearly dead, still screaming. "I'm so sorry, Thaylen," he whispered. "You've fallen." Balthere kicked some dirt onto his partner and turned around. A head lay on the ground before him: Durn's head, rolling slowly across the dirt, blood trailing it. Balthere's gaze followed the blood as he pulled a mace from his side. At the end of the trail of blood stood a masked man with a sword. Shadows danced around the man, like tentacles, tossing as if hungry for Balthere's soul.

"Bad decision, to try and rob this place," the man said. "Should've stayed smoking in the woods, huddled around the campfire." The man frowned, and for a moment, Balthere thought that the man looked sad.

"What in the Hells are you?" Balthere asked. "What the Hells have you done to them?" The bandit boss raised his weapon and shook a fist towards Cale. "What are you?"

Cale laughed, slipping into the shadows. He reappeared behind Balthere and drove his blade through the man's back. He leaned in close to the bandit boss's ear, and sighed. " I'm the Shadowman," he said in a whisper, "and I hope your god is merciful." Cale pulled the blade up, and to the side. Balthere sagged and fell to the ground, lifeless and cold, and Cale pulled his mask up. He couldn't get a sight on the last fighter, Littlestick. Cale figured the man had run back into the woods.

Noises and lights lit up from the halfling village, and Cale turned to find a few of the halflings already outside, staring at him as if he was a ghost. Cale was started to see a halfling girl standing before the rest in a nightgown, staring up at the shade.

"You killed those men," she said.

Cale frowned.

"But if you didn't, they would have killed us." She looked back to the others, then back at Cale. "That makes you a hero," she said. Cale winced, and before anything else happened, he pulled the shadows around him and moved back between cold worlds.


	3. Chapter 3

Cale sat back outside of the house under the setting moon. He threw Weaveshear off to the side and pulled the mask from his face. Turning it over in his hands, Cale wasn't sure where he'd gotten the mask from. He thought of the divine powers, constantly meddling into mortal affairs. Cale thought of Mask, pulling all of the shade's life apart. The shade winced, then crumpled the mask up and tossed it aside. He used to be human once, used to be something real. Mask had taken all of that away now; Cale's god had stripped the man of himself. 

He pulled Jak's pipe from his pocket once again and struck a tindertwig. Cale wasn't one to smoke, but he enjoyed the smells of better days. He thought about the talks he'd had with Jak, about being a hero. He wasn't sure if the message had come through clear, but somehow, Cale knew Jak would be a little proud of him tonight.

Cale watched as the sun attempted to rise. It warred for power against the moon, each tugging its own way, trying to pull Faerun itself apart. Cale smiled to himself, thinking of how all of life attempted to struggle in such a vain manner. He watched the moon set, enjoying every minute of watching midnight scurry away, hating every second that it would be creeping closer. As the sun made its way out of slumber, the shadows dancing across Cale's skin began to recede. Maybe he wasn't a hero yet, but at least Cale was trying, and he'd guessed that meant something to someone. He walked to a nearby creek, washing the blood as clean as he could from his clothes, washing the sins as clean as Cale could from his face. He grudgingly creeped back to the house, pushing his way into the bedroom.

When he opened the door, Cale found Varra still asleep, her arm still being held out waiting for him. Cale removed his clothes and sat down on the bed, stroking his hair. He laid back and took hold of Varra's hand, moving in close for warmth.

"Had to go out again, huh?" She was completely awake, he realized, wondering how long she'd been up.

"Yeah..." Cale tried not to sound surprised, really tried not to sound guilty. "I just went for a walk."

"Oh," she responded. "You sure do love the darkness." Cale chuckled and hugged Varra closer; she smelled as sweet as spring.

"It's my home," he said, a little more bluntly than he'd meant. "It's all I really know."

"I know," she sighed. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight." Cale smiled to himself, the shadows dancing around the couple as they lay in the darkness.

"One more thing," Varra whispered, cracking her neck. "You should start to be more careful. No doubt you've heard of the Shadowman, the shadow that creeps through the night, terrorizing people abroad, and killing all over."

"Yeah," Cale responded. "Everyone's afraid of the Shadowman nowadays."

"Even you?" she whispered, almost asleep. Cale donned his usual mask.

"Even me."


End file.
